Just to reiterate; this is a set of one-off ficlets based around The Full House by Emcee Frodis (#7895293) & Hooper House Rules by Amalia Kensington (#7973501). (Thankyou , you beautiful pair!)
There are BIG SPOILERS for both the Sherlock series & The Full House/Hooper House Rules here, so go read & watch them first before you do anything else!
Thankyou SO much to everyone who's reviewed so far - Lex (obviously!), faeryenchanter, coloradoandcolour, Adi Who is Also Mou & especially Nocturnias, who also writes her own amazing Sherlolly fics. It means ALOT & if you could take a few seconds to review I'd be forever grateful - it's very inspiring to see so many people enjoying my stupid scribbles!
DISCLAIMER: I own none of these characters but if I owned a Sherlock I'd stare at him all day.
I like experimenting with POVs, tenses and writing styles so I hope it isn't too off putting. Also… FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF. I hope it isn't too obvious that a great chunk of this chapter comes from the life-ruining crushes I'm sure we all have on Cumberbatch.
Chapter Three. Unconscious. Set between Ch5 & Ch 6 of The Full House (where Sherlock is having to share a bed with Molly, and finding that her presence helps him sleep).
Molly's eyes open in the darkness. She squints at the blue light coming from her alarm clock - 4.32am - and gives herself a few seconds to adjust. She is lying on her side, facing the bedside table; her contact solution and a glass of water by her head. It's far too early to have woken so suddenly, and she briefly wonders what it was that disturbed her.
As if in answer, Molly hears a soft hum of contentment by one ear and feels hot breath on her throat. She stiffens in surprise - also suddenly very aware of something warm loosely wound around her torso. Molly bites her lip, takes a sharp breath, and with her one free hand ever-so-carefully lifts the covers just enough so she can see.
A smooth, pale arm lies across her side; trapping her own left arm beneath it. A perfect collection of slender fingers are softy brushing against her stomach.
She pauses, bites her lip again, and then allows the duvet to fall back over her. Molly knows what this is, though she's struggling to believe it. Him? Asleep?
Despite herself, she finds that she's smiling and feels the familiar flutter of something she's already felt a million times before in the depths of her stomach. Moving with the silence and subtlety deserving of a woman often referred to as mousey, Molly manages to quietly turn onto her back. She thinks she feels the arm across her waist tighten a little as she moves; almost as if it's refusing to let go.
Her head rests flat against the pillow and Molly stares up at the darkened ceiling. The arm relaxes again. She feels it weighing on her stomach. When her chest rises with her breath, those lovely fingers graze against her side. Goosebumps raise on her skin.
Molly lets a sigh out into the darkness. For a moment she appreciates the beauty of a full, silver moon hung in her window. She wants to turn her head and look at what's next to her instead, but she's inexplicably a little nervous. Looking will make it real, and this is the sort of stuff that curbed years of late night fantasies and daydreams; Molly's not sure she can deal with it being there. Infront of her. In the flesh.
She swallows hard before allowing herself to turn her head, but when she does, her heart almost jumps out of her mouth.
Sherlock Holmes - the Sherlock Holmes - is lying on his front, his limbs askew; his side of the bedcovers wrapped entirely around one leg. He's still wearing his shirt & trousers from the day before and his beloved Blackberry sits on a pillow by his face. His left arm snakes under the knot of covers and entangles itself around Molly's torso. The other is spread-eagled and, from what she can make out in the darkness, hanging off the other side of the bed.
Molly's never seen Sherlock asleep before. It's almost jarring to witness such a sharp, brilliant man in such a state of vulnerability. She stares at him for a short time and realises this is the first time in many years that she's just been able to just look without fear of anyone (including him) noticing. Automatically she inwardly curses herself for thinking like a lovesick teenager. But still. He he was; the object of every sordid fantasy or sickeningly sweet imagining lying next to her, illuminated by the blue glow from the alarm clock. She could just lie and stare at him for hours if she wanted to. No one would know.
Molly finds herself smiling again. It's been a while since she's felt this naughty. Deciding that this was not an opportunity to be wasted, she wants to take it slow and work her way up. She starts with his feet, which are hanging in mid-air just a few inches off the end of the bed. They're just like the rest of him - long. Too long, almost, except Molly knows how perfectly graceful and fluid he is on them.
Her gaze lingers for a moment, though she quickly dispels thoughts of that popular myth that states a man's feet are directly proportioned to… Other areas. A blush creeps up her cheeks, and Molly briefly hates herself for how easily embarrassed she can become - even in a dark room where she's the only conscious human being.
She hurriedly continues and her eyes trace over the dark shape of those almost abnormally long legs. They're nothing more than a silhouette in the darkness, though she knows beneath his black trousers they will be just as deathly pale as the rest of him. In truth, Molly secretly admits to herself that she quite likes Sherlock's alabaster complexion. It makes him more special, more unique. He is a wonderful, ethereal angel; unquestioningly beautiful but also hard, strong and more than a little frightening.
Another soft murmur breaks the silence. All thoughts of enjoying Sherlock at a leisurely pace are gone, and Molly's gaze immediately flicker upward, worried that somehow her penetrating stares have disturbed his sleep. Her apprehension is broken by a smile that is automatic to seeing that face. He's still very much asleep - with comfortable, shallow breaths escaping through his slightly parted lips. He's facing her, and now that Molly has turned her head completely to look at him, his nose is no more than three inches from hers. Being this close is almost overwhelming. Molly briefly recalls a few moments ago, when she inwardly mused on the beauty of the moon, and isn't surprised to realise Sherlock is infinitely more magnificent to her.
The blue light from the alarm clock casts his features into heavy relief. Molly's eyes trace over those cheekbones - those impossible cheekbones - that could have easily been carved from glass. He's thin in the face without being gaunt and he has a cupids bow that just absolutely cannot be real. Apart from it is. She almost wishes he had his eyes open so she could gaze into what she knows to be gorgeous, grey pools of intelligence and wit. Though, if he did have his eyes open, she could hardly be lying here like this; staring at him like a starving woman watching a roast dinner.
Molly finds herself wanting to run her fingers through his dark hair, which falls messily about his head in thick curls. He looks so peaceful. The usual crease that forms between his brow when deep in thought (always, then) is gone, as are the frown lines that sometimes appear at the corners of his mouth. Oh God, that mouth. Molly dedicates a minute or two just to that mouth. She can just about make out his teeth behind his lips.
She bites her own lip, almost to stop herself from reaching forward and biting his. Nevertheless, Molly dares herself to shuffle forward a little; stretching her neck forward so that the tip of her nose is less than an inch from his. If he opened his eyes now, she'd have a bloody difficult job of explaining herself to him. Her heart beats a little faster.
Suddenly, Sherlock gives a sleepy moan and the arm around Molly's waist tenses, bending at the elbow and inadvertently pulling her closer. She almost stops breathing; her entire body frozen in place. She waits until she's completely sure he's definitely comatose before allowing herself to exhale again. He hasn't woken, but nuzzles his face into her shoulder and gives another contented sigh against her skin. Molly is unsure of what to do. She lies staring upward - her heart hammering in her chest and her breath a little ragged.
She waits a while until her body calms itself & finally decides she'd best get some sleep. She doesn't dare move, but then again, she doesn't really want to. Closing her eyes, Molly indulges herself and melts into his unconscious embrace.